


The Sea Air

by Galadriel



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Beginnings, Diplomacy, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, First Meetings, Love at First Sight, Ocean, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:48:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22012090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/Galadriel
Summary: Visiting Dol Amroth, Denethor finds the sea air does not agree with him.
Relationships: Denethor II/Finduilas of Dol Amroth
Kudos: 10
Collections: Lord of the Rings Secret Santa 2019





	The Sea Air

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Marta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marta/gifts).



> Happy Holidays, Marta! Like you, I find Denethor fascinating. I hope you enjoy this little look into a visit to Dol Amroth. I've tried to incorporate some of the things you are most interested in, namely his relationships with Imrahil and Finduilas.

The sea air did not agree with him.

It had been tolerably temperate when they had arrived at Dol Amroth, a rare outing as part of his father's retinue. Ecthelion himself was in good spirits, presumably because of the change in scenery and the chance to slip out from beneath the Shadow, however briefly. 

They were all feeling a little lighter, Steward and soldiers, Denethor observed. Quicker to smile, more likely to laugh. Hands drifted more slowly to sword pommels, the spectre of orcs lurking at the edge of their peripheral vision fading as the coast came closer. Even the horses seemed happier, their gaits smoothing and lengthening, quiet breaths replacing nervous nickering as they moved. 

And truly, Dol Amroth was a sight to behold. As the mountains had given way to hills and then plains, so too had the trees thinned and the ground levelled. The air took on a tinge of salt that tickled Denethor's nose, announcing the sea even before it was in view. And Dol Amroth itself, perched on the edge towering cliffs, stretching across the plateau, rose gracefully out of the ground, a forest of pure white spires topped with sparkling silver caps. It was as if the waves themselves had risen up over the cliff's edge and frozen there, bridges and columns echoing the curve and flow of flowing water. 

Once they were close enough to hear the waves crashing in the distance, Angelimir himself came out to greet them, a tall, strong man of grace and good humour even as the years settled upon him. He was seated in an open-air carriage, the sides shaped like the wings of a swan, curling back and around as if protecting and cradling Angelimir. Two snow-white horses drew him forward, and a small group of guards, their shields and helmets sporting white wings, flanked the carriage. One of the guards broke from the others and closed the space between the Prince and Ecthelion's party. He pulled his horse up short, removed his helmet, and smiled. 

"Welcome to Dol Amroth, Steward Ecthelion! The Ship and the Swan count themselves blessed to have you enter our fair field. We have come to greet and be greeted in turn and to escort you over this last small space until you are counted safe within our walls."

Ecthelion inclined his head in response. "It is good to see you again, Adrahil! And to have the Prince attend to us is an honour far beyond our worth." He urged his horse forward, and as he did so, Adrahil maneuvered himself and his horse to fall into step beside him. They approached the carriage, and stopping short, Ecthelion dismounted and handed his reins to Adrahil. "Well met, Prince Angelimir." He bowed low.

A rolling chuckle floated up from the carriage. " _Steward_ Ecthelion. How many times have I told you that I have no need of such formalities?"

"Every visit." Ecthelion straightened, a grin dancing across his features. "And yet all this pomp and circumstance belies such casual greetings, does it not?" He gestured to the carriage and guards.

"I suppose it does." Angelimir's smile broadened as he waved a hand at Ecthelion. "Well, go on with you, then. Back on your horse. I have no doubt you have much you wish to speak of with my son."

A laugh, a nod, and Ecthelion swung back up onto his horse. Hardly a moment later, and Ecthelion and Adrahil were trotting off towards the gates that sparkled as the sun hit them. Angelimir's carriage and guards came next, a moment or two needed to turn back towards their home. 

Denethor and his father's soldiers brought up the rear. He frowned a little; were the Prince and Adrahil unaware that he was his father's son? Why had Ecthelion not even mentioned him during his address to Angelimir? Why had he not been invited to ride alongside Adrahil too? Surely he was as interesting a conversational partner as the Prince's heir. Denethor's lips thinned as he nudged his horse forward, all too keenly aware of his father's slight.

"Denethor."

Denethor blinked as he raised his head. Ecthelion was only a few strides ahead, and he felt hope surge in his breast as his father smiled at him. Reflexively, he kicked his heels, closing the gap. "Yes, father?"

"Adrahil's son is about your age. It would do you good to spend some time cultivating relationships with your peers. No doubt you will wish to greet him once we arrive." Ecthelion reached out and clapped Denethor on the shoulder before he turned back to Adrahil, immediately picking up the threads of a conversation that appeared to be about local fishing prospects. 

Hope shrivelled into a knot in Denethor's chest. Imrahil was twenty years younger than him. _Twenty years_. Did his father have so little regard for him that he could not even recall his age?

As the open gates rose up above them, stone shadowing their entrance to the city, Denethor shivered. The sea air felt clammy and cold, a grasping, invisible hand dampening his hair and clothes.

***

"And as you can see, across this bridge is the Sea-ward Tower." As if on cue, one long, clear ring of a bell cut through the damp and foggy air.

At least now he could see the blasted thing that had been keeping him up all night.

Denethor had spent almost every day of their visit wandering roads and ramparts with the Prince's grandson. He had seen their docks, their ships, their marketplace and common houses. He was half-sick from viewing statuary and sanctuaries, and attending festivals and feasts; although reviewing Dol Amroth's guard on the second day had provided a short space of interest in an otherwise dull tour. Denethor committed their numbers and the scope of their armour and weaponry to memory -- all the better to be pressed into aiding the White City -- and he had inquired as to whether he might be allowed access to their soldiers' training. Imrahil, for his part, had been nothing but agreeable, but it was the fourth day, and as of yet, no such opportunity had materialized.

Imrahil was a pleasant enough fellow. If Denethor had been just a little younger, he may have considered him a potential friend. As it was, he seemed a fine companion, and was certainly knowledgeable regarding the scope of his city and the needs of his people, and he represented his grandfather well in all interactions. He was even a suitable dinner companion, which was welcome given he had not seen Ecthelion since the evening of their first full day. 

As much as he understood his father was ensconced in private chambers with Angelimir, discussing the Shadow and its threat to the whole of Gondor, it stung just a little knowing his counsel was not needed. He appreciated that Ecthelion had brought him along, but a small voice inside him wondered if his father would have preferred to bring one of his sisters. He had seen Ecthelion subtly take their advice on small matters of Stewardship after a quiet family meal, and while he knew he was not an unwanted or dishonoured son, he could still feel the small breadth of space between Ecthelion's favourite daughters and his only son.

He wondered if Imrahil ever felt that way. He had met Imrahil's older sister, Ivriniel, who was tall and beautiful and cold; she reminded him in every way of the lone tower in front of them, nominally connected to the land and forever performing her duty, but visibly preferring solitude. Denethor knew she was very likely one of the few women of appropriate rank and age whom he might marry, and after a meal spent mostly in silence with both siblings, where the only conversation between the two was minimal, direct, and stripped of all courtly artifice, he was of the opinion that a quiet life with her would be reasonably tolerable. She was beautiful, intelligent, and appeared not to suffer fools, even as she displayed a fondness for her younger brother. What she lacked in his charm, she made up for in a shrewdness of thought that came out as she spoke with Imrahil of the swan fleet, the state of their ships, the regularity of their coastal patrols. 

Once the meal had ended, she excused herself from their company in favour of a book, leaving them to their drinks and the prospect of another politely distant conversation that did nothing but underline how duty ruled both sons' lives. 

Denethor envied Imrahil, just a little, as the man seemed to have more room to pursue his own passions than Denethor could ever hope for. Perhaps it was that Princehood was further away from Imrahil than Stewardship was for Denethor. Perhaps it was the decades that had dampened Denethor had not yet sunk into Imrahil's bones. Either way, that distance brought them here, to another day of Dol Amroth delights; the tower, the bell, and an increasing pounding at the base of Denethor's skull.

"It is truly impressive," he said, trying to sound far more fascinated than he was. The fog had cleared enough for Imrahil to suggest this little outing after Denethor had mildly inquired as to what was causing the constant ringing in his ears, but it was starting to close in again. The upper half of the tower rose and disappeared in wreaths of mist and lowering cloud, and Denethor could hear but no longer see the waves below the bridge. It would require careful steps to combat the slickness the fog had left on the cobblestones beneath his feet. What an ignominious end a slip and fall might bestow, Denethor thought wryly. 

Truly, the sea air was not to his tastes. Damp, heavy, and now a major impediment to sight, he could feel it seeping deep into his bones. He turned from the tower, resolved to make his way back to his chambers and the promise of a hot bath and warm fire.

Clutching at the bridge's stone rail, Denethor shuffled his feet. He assumed Imrahil would follow close behind, as he had during almost every step Denethor had taken in Dol Amroth, but he could not muster the ambition to turn his head nor call to the man. He was tired to the marrow of diplomatic pleasantries, of being lonely, yet not being alone. 

As he left the bridge and regained solid footing on land, the fog lifted, parting in front of his as if it were a curtain. The staircase that rose above him, carved directly into the rock and leading up from the Sea-ward Tower, was not empty. A maiden of dark hair and grey eyes descended in front of him, picking her way down the slick stairs on bare feet. She held her skirts up with one hand, and steadied herself by thrusting her other arm out to the side. Despite the treachery of the fog, she moved with a practised ease that spoke of fearlessness and confidence. Her hips swayed like the tides, and she moved with the grace of a sea-bird gliding homeward. 

Denethor's breath caught in his throat.

Struck dumb at the sight in front of him, he did not even think to move to the side as she reached the base of the stairs. Yet the maiden seemed unperturbed, nodded at him and murmured a soft, "M'lord," as she slipped past him, the trailing edge of her sleeve brushing across Denethor's wrist.

It was as the caress of sea foam atop a wave. Denethor wet his lips, silently willing his heart to cease its pounding in his chest lest she hear its thundering.

"Brother!" The maiden called out, and Denethor pivoted, wondering who but himself and Imrahil were within calling distance. The people tending the tower, perhaps? 

But it was not a bell-keeper who swept the maiden off her feet, swinging her around in a circle that seemed dangerous atop such slick stone. "Sister!" Imrahil called out, laughing. "It has been _far_ too long." 

Breathless and laughing as he set her down on her feet, the maiden leaned against Imrahil. "It has been _two_ days. And I'll wager you have not thought of me more than twice that entire time."

"Four times," Imrahil chuckled. "Five, I suppose, if we count now." 

Mock-offended, the maiden cried out in protest and pushed against her brother. They tussled for a moment, and then Imrahil curved an arm around her shoulders and hugged her to his side. 

"My apologies, my lord Denethor," Imrahil smiled, some measure of formality returning to his voice as he appeared to realize that their reunion had played out in front of a guest. "This is my little sister, Finduilas. She and our mother have only just returned from a short visit with our aunt. Finduilas, this is Steward Ecthelion's son, Denethor of the House of Húrin."

Denethor's eyebrows went up at the formality of the introduction. Yet that surprise was washed away as Finduilas took a step forward and curtseyed, tipping her head down even as she looked slyly up at him, mischievous eyes framed by long, dark lashes. "It is my great pleasure to meet you, sir," she murmured, and held out her hand. 

Immediately, Denethor took her hand, cradling her fingers lightly in his palm. Her hair and skirts were in disarray in the aftermath of her encounter with her brother, but she was still the most captivating woman Denethor had ever seen. It was not simply her beauty, although she was truly stunning. No, it was the way she moved, the look in her eye, the tenor of her voice; all these qualities and more spoke of a depth that would never truly be plumbed, yet one that Denethor desperately wished to immerse himself in. He brushed dry lips against the back of her hand, murmured something approaching an appropriate greeting, and straightened. He licked his lips and smiled. He tasted salt and seawater, but instead of the coldness of the ocean underneath, it tasted of warmth and light and life, of promise and peace and happiness.

As much as he did not wish to, he let go of Finduilas' hand. "It is entirely my pleasure, my lady." He glanced at Imrahil, feeling the corners of his mouth quirk upward into a rare smile. "Perhaps your sister would deign to accompany us on the rest of today's tour?" He could feel his face flushing as he looked back at her. "Your brother has been kindly introducing me to your wonderful city. It is a rare gem, and I would be flattered if you would see fit to share some of your favourite spots with me as well."

When she inclined her head in agreement, Denethor's heart leapt. For the first time since he had entered the gates of this city, he felt a little glimmer of hope. As he followed along behind the siblings, Finduilas laughing as she tugged Imrahil forward by the hand, Denethor called to mind the mix of sea and salt the chaste kiss had left on his lips. 

For today, right now, the sea air certainly agreed with him. As it no doubt would far into the future.

How could he ever have thought any different?


End file.
